


ah fuck, i can’t believe you’ve done this

by dragonbagel



Series: peter and mj, sittin in a tree [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Medication, Mental Health Issues, No Spoilers, and peter is bad at accepting help, mj is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonbagel/pseuds/dragonbagel
Summary: MJ had always been good at reading people, and even better at spying on them. She was an experienced stalker, though she preferred the term “professional observer.” She could spot lies as easily as breathing and notice attempted secrecy from a mile away. In her bonafide opinion, people were just really shitty at keeping their business to themselves. It was easy to figure out, really. Child’s play.But there was one flaw in her master plan, and if there was one thing MJ hated, it was flaws.That flaw’s name was Peter Parker.or: mj sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong—namely, in peter’s stuff. spoiler: he’s not too happy about it.





	ah fuck, i can’t believe you’ve done this

**Author's Note:**

> me? projecting once again? naming my fics after vines? it’s more likely than you think

One day, MJ was going to be an investigative journalist. Not now, at her dinky school paper, doing nothing but revealing the shocking number of teacher-student affairs, and most certainly not at a shitty paper like the Daily Bugle that could hardly even call itself journalism. And this wasn’t one of those “when I grow up, I want to be…” type of situations; she was Michelle Jones, and once she set her mind on something, there was no turning back, regardless of anyone who tried to get in her way.

She’d always been good at reading people, and even better at spying on them. She was an experienced stalker, though she preferred the term “professional observer.” She could spot lies as easily as breathing and notice attempted secrecy from a mile away. In her bonafide opinion, people were just really shitty at keeping their business to themselves. It was easy to figure out, really. Child’s play.

But there was one flaw in her master plan, and if there was one thing MJ hated, it was flaws. 

That flaw’s name was Peter Parker.

She’d thought she could read him like a book. Her sketchbook was filled with drawings of him in crisis, and his whole secret identity thing was laughably easy to see through. But that’s where the problems started. See, she could deal with Spider-Man. It was actually a point of pride, having figured it out on her own. The look on Peter’s face when she’d told him had honestly been hilarious.

She’d reasoned out his powers. Traced his relationship with Tony Stark. Followed the route of his spandex-clad escapades. Kept tabs on his news and social media presence, cross-referencing and calculating.

It was easy, because that’s what she did: investigate. Follow. Reason. Conclude. Expose. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

How ironic that her downfall would be the dork asleep in bed next to her, essentially drooling on the shoulder of the shirt that had taken an embarrassingly long time to pick out.

Because despite all of her many hours of observation, Peter Benjamin Parker made no fucking sense. One minute, he’d be bouncing off the walls; the next, he’d be so still that she was half convinced he had a side job as one of those weird statue street performers. And _god_ , don’t get her started on the disappearing. Sure, she got the Spider-Man stuff. But sometimes, he just up and vanished--which MJ knew, because she was good at tracking people like that.

Then there were the times where he didn’t leave--at least, not physically. It was almost worse than the constant excuses and dipping out on practice and hang-outs and dates, seeing him there but _not._ The things that made Peter _Peter_ seemed to get sucked out of him, hidden away in some corner of his mind that, try as she might, MJ just couldn’t reach.

Peter, being the stubborn asshole that he was, always denied it. _No, MJ, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sorry, MJ, I’m just tired. Jeez, MJ, it’s like you’re stalking me._ The constant deflection was infuriating, and how the hell was he not _tired_ of this shit already? MJ wasn’t great at the whole “emotional vulnerability” thing, but at least she was making an effort. At least she wasn’t stuffing everything down so deep inside that it left everyone on the outside, helplessly looking in.

MJ sighed. The laptop balanced on her knees was still softly playing Netflix in the background, some sitcom or another that she didn’t care about and Peter would still hear be able to hear because of his weirdly sensitive ears. Besides, MJ hadn’t exactly come over to watch TV, if you caught her drift. But Peter had been tired and basically conked out the second his head hit the pillow, and since MJ was ninety percent sure he’d given himself a concussion the last time he went patrolling, she figured he needed the sleep.

She tried to force her eyes back onto the screen. A white guy was joking about hating his wife, how original. Maybe she should make a mental list of problematic aspects to point out to Peter when she grilled him on his television preferences later. Could be fun.

She made it two more minutes before having to close the laptop so she didn’t blow her brains out. Sighing, she placed the computer on the floor, trying to get comfortable. A nap might be nice. But Peter, for all his muscle, was still kind of bony, and his feet were cold on her shins and his breath was hot and he was snoring softly and still drooling on her goddamn shirt and—yeah. Nap was out of the question.

She glanced up. The underside of the top bunk was covered in those plastic stars, the ones that would be glowing right now if it wasn’t the middle of the afternoon. She counted nineteen of them, and wondered if that was somehow significant, if this was just another thing that her stupid brain couldn’t figure out, and Jesus Christ how was she ever supposed to be a good reporter like this?

She groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. Maybe this was it, she’d officially gone insane. Maybe she would be forced to lay in this cramped, tiny bed forever while her boyfriend slobbered on her in his sleep and a hellish laugh track played from the laptop that she’d definitely closed.

Alright, fuck this.

MJ gently pushed back the covers, moving Peter’s head from her shoulder onto his nerdy Star Wars pillow. He didn’t even stir. Relieved, MJ sat up fully, slipping on her slides. With one last look at Peter, she made her way out of his room.

The apartment was quiet, almost unnervingly so. May was at work, hence MJ’s masterful Netflix & Chill plan that Peter just _had_ to ruin by not sleeping for like five days straight. Sighing, MJ entered the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.

Though she was loathe to admit it, she’d put a little bit of extra work into her look today. Hair somewhat styled, makeup more refined than just smudged three day old eyeshadow that she passed off as smokey eye. And sure, Peter’s eyes had gone all comically wide when he first saw her, but now, after an hour of straight up nothing, she just looked rumpled and disappointed.

She frowned, wetting her hand and trying to push some of her hair back out of her face. No luck; it just continued to fall in front of her face, unruly and annoying. At this point, she might as well just put it up into her signature messy ponytail, considering the one person she’d been trying to impress was out cold. She froze when she realized her wrist was bare. Her ponytail. The one that had literally been with her through hell or high water. The one she’d pretty much resigned to being her only friend until she’d joined Ned and Peter’s gang of losers. Shit. 

She slid open the drawer nearest to her, because surely May wouldn’t mind her borrowing a scrunchie, right? Unfortunately, this particular drawer belonged to Peter. She spotted the Spider-Man toothbrush she’d gotten him as a joke, a dust-covered pair of glasses, and _ew was that Axe?_ Yeah, they needed to have a serious talk.

She was about to continue her prowl through the Parker family’s drawers—it wasn’t creepy, she just wanted a ponytail, okay?—when a flash of orange caught her eye. She froze, unable to stop the way her eyes automatically took in the unmistakable shape of a pill bottle. 

_No. No, this was wrong._ _This was so,_ so _wrong._

But the investigative reporter inside of her was screaming--not to mention her inner snooping tendencies--and, well, journalism died in darkness, or something like that.

Fuck it.

MJ’s hand seemed to move of its own accord, wrapping around the plastic bottle and pulling it out to inspect. The few pills inside jangled, and she quickly steadied her hand. Then she squinted, reading the label.

_Parker, Peter_

_Lithium carbonate, 600 mg_

_Take 2 capsules by mouth daily_

Lithium. Peter Parker-- _Spider-Man_ \--was on lithium. For some reason, she was having a hard time absorbing the fact, despite it being fine. Really.

She looked at the label again, as if maybe she’d imagined it. But no, it read the same. Then she spotted the expiration date: October 5, 2015. 

Okay. So Peter Parker, AKA Spider-Man, _used_ to be on lithium. She hadn’t really known Peter then, so the image that her overactive imagination created of a manic-depressed emo middle-schooler wasn’t too hard to reconcile with the dork she knew now.

“You know, it’s generally considered rude to go through someone else’s stuff. _Especially_ if they’re sleeping.”

MJ jolted, dropping the bottle back into the drawer and slamming it shut as if burned. She pressed her back against the counter, whirling around to see Peter. Her face heated, and she averted her eyes. Shit, hadn’t she locked the door? A glance at Peter’s hand gripping the mangled remnants of what was once the doorknob told her that yeah, she probably had, but fuck if that mattered.

“Really? Because I always heard it was rude to walk in on someone in the bathroom.”

MJ couldn’t hide the slight waver in her voice, or the way she was frozen, unable to move, unable to tear her gaze from the crunching sound coming from Peter’s fist. They were the same height, but MJ found herself shrinking in on herself as if he was towering over her. The thinly veiled anger, tucked into the trembling of his jaw and the hardness of his eyes, was at odds with his bed-rumpled hair, which was sticking up everywhere. MJ’s hand twitched forward as if to smooth it down, but Peter flinched back, silent save for the sudden snap of the handle fully detaching from door.

Peter exhaled loudly through his nose, undeniable rage tight and controlled. He shuddered, then dropped the warped piece of metal onto the floor with the stiffness of a corpse breaking out of full-on rigor mortis. MJ could only watch as he stalked away towards his bedroom, slamming the door with a force that he’d undoubtedly calculated to barely avoid breaking it off its hinges. 

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She noticed with a gulp that hallway was speckled with blood, no doubt from Peter’s hand.

Fuck, what had she done?

_She could fix this. She had to._

MJ grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet-- _she was allowed to touch this, Peter let her use it, she wasn’t snooping, she wasn’t_ \--and side-stepped the bloodied, warped doorknob. The morbid, metaphorical part of her thought that it sort of looked like her heart. Maybe, if Peter went all human-sacrifice on her with his super-strength, this was what he’d find inside. It wasn’t like she didn’t deserve it.

“Peter?” MJ called, tentatively knocking.

No response. It was what she’d expected, but it still stung. She was half convinced he’d gone off, probably swung halfway across the city by now. She sighed, resting her forehead against the door.

“Peter, would you please let me in? I just want to talk and, uh, apologize, I guess.”

The words stuck in her windpipe, because fuck, she’d really messed it up this time, huh? She cleared her throat, trying again. 

“Listen, I get that you’re probably mad at me. Well, not probably--you really did a number on that doorknob, y’know?” She mentally scolded herself-- _now was_ not _the time for jokes, MJ._ “And you don’t even have to say anything, you can just glare at me or whatever. I just..will you please let me in?”

More silence. There was no way Mr. Super-Ears couldn’t hear her--unless he’d left, which was sounding likelier by the second. She had half a mind to just walk in and see for herself, because if she stood out here all afternoon it would be even more awkward than it already was. Then she remembered that that was what had gotten her into this whole mess to begin with, so she decided against it.

_Thwip._

The unmistakable sound of a web-shooter, and the door was pulled open from inside. MJ gingerly stepped through, catching a flash of Peter’s shoe on the wall as he crawled out the window. Readjusting her grip on the first aid kit, MJ followed, trying not to stumble too badly on her way out to the fire escape.

Of course, being in Peter’s proximity for years meant some of that good ol’ Parker Luck had rubbed off on her, so she tripped on her stupid over-sized slides and would’ve fallen off the stupid fire escape onto her stupid face if stupid Peter hadn’t caught her stupid arm with his stupid Spider-Man reflexes.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Careful,” was all Peter said as he pulled MJ back onto the fire escape, where she shifted so that she was sitting beside him. Peter remained perched in the corner, on the railing, raising MJ’s already unbearable anxiety despite knowing about his weird sticky powers.

The silence taunted her, the tension in the air so thick it was shocking she couldn’t see it. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before settling on saying what was, admittedly, not one of her finest lines.

“How are your thighs not on fire right now?”

The poorly hidden confusion-turned-frustration on Peter’s face made MJ want to smack herself. He didn’t bother responding, only hunching in further on himself with a small shrug. Maybe it was better that way.

“Sorry, that was bad. Let me, uh…” She cleared her throat, for once thankful that Peter was staring at his feet. “Let me try that again.”

She wasn’t totally sure, but it looked like Peter might have nodded. MJ sighed, steeling herself.

“Remember how I said I didn’t do ‘friends’? Like, back when we sat at the same lunch table, but not really? Well, it’s because I’m not great at, y’know, trusting people.”

She kept her gaze strictly on the street below, because if she saw Peter’s face right now she would undoubtedly lose all composure and probably stop talking for the rest of her life.

“And I’m an investigative reporter. Or, at least, I’m gonna be, after all this stupid high school shit. No offense, I know you’re into, like, learning, and whatever. And this is probably gonna sound bad, but I guess I sort of saw you as something I was trying to figure out? Some _one_ , I mean.”

More silence. Another deep breath.

“I know that, like, going through your shit isn’t the way to do that, but you never fucking talk to me about anything. Like Jesus, Parker, it’s ridiculous! I know something’s up, and I want to help, and I don’t know if it’s the hero complex or a fragile masculinity thing but it’s driving me fucking insane! So please, for the love of god, would you just talk to me?”

MJ glanced up at the sound of Peter hopping off the railing and landing softly beside her, immediately curling back into his partial fetal position the second he sat down. He was close, but just out of arm’s reach, and MJ figured that was probably on purpose.

“You don’t get to make this about me. It’s not my f-fucking fault you looked through my stuff.” Peter’s voice was quiet, rough, cracking at the seams.

“I know,” MJ admitted. “I’m just...worried.”

Peter chuckled, the sound hollow and broken and grating on MJ’s ears. “You sound like May.”

“Is that supposed to be sexist?”

“No, it’s supposed to be me telling you that it’s none of your business.”

MJ frowned, scooting slightly closer. “You’re my boyfriend. You _are_ my business.”

She pointed to his hand when he didn’t reply, then gestured to the first aid kit that she’d practically forgotten about. “Can I?”

Peter shrugged. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure it already healed.”

“Nu-uh,” MJ replied. “Last time you tried that you got an infection.”

Peter groaned but complied, moving towards MJ with his hand extended. He was right--the wound was already beginning to close, and it would probably be fine. But MJ was nothing if not thorough, a sentiment which apparently also applied to stalking. 

Plus, this gave her an opportunity to get closer to Peter, to establish that physical contact that she craved and maybe (hopefully) Peter did too.

He didn’t flinch as she worked, disinfecting and bandaging. Her hands were shaky, so it took an embarrassingly long time. By the time she finished, Peter had his head resting on her shoulder, so sue her if she didn’t mind taking things slow.

“I don’t take it anymore.”

MJ’s first instinct was to sit up at the sound of Peter’s voice, but the comforting weight of his body resting on her had her just humming in response.

“The lithium, I mean. It doesn’t even work, and it’s just another drain on May’s bank account, so yeah. I don’t take it anymore.”

MJ shifts slightly so that her head could rest atop Peter’s in some weird sort of sandwich. “Meds stop working for a lot of people.”

“It’s not like that. You know how crazy my metabolism and shit is…” He trailed off, letting the meaning of his words hang heavy in the air.

“Oh,” is the only response MJ can manage before another thought occurs to her. “Isn’t the Hulk--god, I can’t believe I’m saying this--your doctor, or something? Can’t he make you, like, superhero meds?”

Peter snorted. “It took him over a year to make a sedative that even _kind of_ worked on me.”

MJ opened her mouth to berate him for the slew of implications from the statement, such as the _numerous_ bullets that had been removed from his body _without anesthesia,_ but Peter plowed on.

“And what would I even say? ‘Hi, Dr. Banner, AKA The Hulk, AKA an Avenger. Would you take time out of your busy day to help medicate your young, useless recruit so that he can, I don’t know, take a fucking shower without crying?’” Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

MJ pulls back to look at him, _really_ look at him. She sees the bags under his eyes, the fading tear tracks, and frowns. “You need to get over yourself, Parker.”

Peter made a sound that sounded a lot like choking. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been through some fucked up shit, you know that? And even if you hadn’t, it doesn’t matter.”

Peter shook his head. “You don’t get it. They all expect me to be some, some _hero_ , and I can’t let them down. I just can’t.”

MJ sighed. “You know that’s not what this is. You’re one of the bravest people I know—but don’t tell anyone I said that, or I’ll kick your ass.”

That earned a snort out of Peter.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll try going swinging with you again if you promise to talk to your weird superhero doctor about, y’know, this.”

The excitement in Peter’s eyes was obvious the second MJ mentioned swinging. “Wait, really? But you said you hated it.”

MJ grimaced, because yeah, she kind of did. “It’s called a compromise, dumbass.”

Peter seemed to consider for a moment, then finally cracked a smile. She could practically feel the energy radiating off of him again, and it made her chest feel tight with something akin to love. Not that she’d ever admit it, of course. Because she wasn’t a loser who experienced stupid shit like feelings.

“Woah, slow your roll there, tiger,” MJ said, spotting Peter checking over his web shooters beside her. “I need at least five business days to prepare before any of that swinging shit.”

“Technically it’s slinging,” Peter replied cheekily.

MJ groaned, really honing in on her inner drama queen. She cut herself off at the feeling of lips on her cheek. Peter’s lips. God, now she was definitely blushing.

She turned towards Peter, this time pressing her mouth against his. When she pulled away, Peter’s flush—definitely darker and more embarrassing than hers—filled her with satisfaction.

“I really am sorry,” MJ said after a moment. “It won’t happen again, even if you still choose to be an idiot and internalize all that shit. Except, uh, maybe you could actually talk to me next time it’s bad?”

Peter bit his lip before eventually nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try.”

MJ leaned forward to kiss him again, the feeling sucking all the oxygen and coherency out of her brain in an extremely satisfying way.

“That’s all I can ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> pls leave comments/kudos i rly appreciate it


End file.
